[Illustration: "'SIX IMPTY CHAIRS, SORR'"]

"I don't know," said Barney, quietly. "I didn't t'ink so before."

"Before? Before what? When?" I asked.

"Whin you was writin' shtories about ut, sorr," said Barney,
respectfully. "You've had a black horse-hair sofy turn white in a
single noight, sorr, for the soight of horror ut's witnessed. You've
had the hair of your own head shtand on ind loike tinpenny nails at
what you've seen here in this very room, yourself, sorr. You've had
ghosts doin' all sorts of t'ings in the shtories you've been writin'
for years, and _you've always swore they was thrue, sorr_. I didn't
believe 'em when I read 'em, but whin I see thim segyars bein'
shmoked up before me eyes by invishible t'ings, I sez to meself, sez
I, the boss ain't such a dommed loiar afther all. I've follyd your
writin', sorr, very careful and close loike; an I don't see how,
afther the tales you've told about your own experiences right here,
you can say consishtently that this wan o' mine ain't so!"

"But why, Barney," I asked, to confuse him, "when a thing like this
happened, didn't you write and tell me?"

Barney chuckled as only one of his species can chuckle.

"Wroite an' tell ye?" he cried. "Be gorry, sorr, if I could wroite
at all at all, ut's not you oi'd be wroitin' that tale to, but to
the edithor of the paper that you wroite for. A tale loike that is
wort' tin dollars to any man, eshpecially if ut's thrue. But I niver